A rough, grating voice boomed through the depths of the Block of the Lost, amplified by rusty speakers mounted on the damp stone walls.
"Wake up! It's time to work. You know what happens if you don't move fast!"
The voice echoed, bouncing off the cold, unyielding stone and shaking the silence of the early hours. It wasn't just a signal; it was a reminder. A reminder that here, in this frozen purgatory, time was nothing but a cruel loop. Days bled into each other, and freedom was a concept long buried beneath the ice.
The iron doors of the cells creaked open with a metallic groan. A gust of freezing air surged into the narrow corridors, biting at the skin of the prisoners. One by one, shadows of men emerged, their gaunt faces etched with fatigue and their bodies visibly weakened. Many stumbled, their steps slow and unsteady, already defeated before the day even began.
Amidst the procession of broken souls, Takeshi stepped out of his cell.
His crimson hair fell messily across his face, a vivid contrast to the pallid, lifeless expressions of those around him. His piercing blue eyes scanned the corridor, alert and calculating. He was different from the others. While they hunched their shoulders and bowed their heads, his posture remained upright, his movements deliberate and composed.
He glanced at his wrist, where the faint glow of a restriction seal shimmered just under his skin. This small, cruel mark was far more than a simple tattoo. It was a shackle. It severed his connection to mana, robbing him of the energy that defined his strength, his identity. Without it, the prisoners were no more than ordinary men, stripped of their abilities and left vulnerable to the cold, the pain, and the constant exhaustion.
The seal had broken countless men. Takeshi had seen warriors—legends in their own right—reduced to empty shells. Some lost their sanity. Others simply gave up and let the frost claim them. But Takeshi wasn't like them.
His body, sculpted by years of grueling training, compensated for what the seal took. He felt the same cold, the same exhaustion, but his sheer will and resilience kept him standing where others fell. His hands clenched briefly into fists, the veins on his forearms flexing under the strain of his control.
The prisoners were marched out in single file, crossing the icy metal walkways that connected the blocks. The air here was sharp, filled with the faint, acrid scent of rust and decay. The prison was divided into sections, each one a reflection of the cruelty of its purpose.
The First Block—the Abyss—was a place of horrors. The prisoners there were monsters, men so dangerous that even the guards feared to approach them. The Second Block, known as the Labyrinth, housed cold-blooded killers, assassins who had perfected their art of death. The Third Block, the Block of the Lost, was different. It was chaos—a melting pot of violent men driven by desperation and hunger for survival. Here, brute strength and cunning determined who lived another day.
Takeshi walked in silence, his gaze darting between the guards and the prisoners around him. Every movement, every detail, was important.
They arrived at the mines: a desolate, frozen wasteland of broken machinery and yawning pits. The mines stretched endlessly across the island, a labyrinth of tunnels and shafts carved deep into the frozen ground. Bridges of rotting wood and precarious scaffolding connected the various levels. The air here was even colder than the prison itself, and each breath felt like inhaling shards of ice.
Tools were handed out: pikes, shovels, and iron bars, all worn and rusted. Each prisoner was assigned a task: break the rocks, haul the ore, or dig deeper into the ground. It was grueling work. The seal of restriction ensured that no one could use mana to ease their burdens, forcing them to rely on their physical strength alone. For many, it was a death sentence.
Takeshi grabbed a pike and began working. His movements were steady, his strikes deliberate. He conserved his energy, pacing himself while still appearing to comply with the guards' orders. But his mind wasn't on the work.
He was watching. Always watching.
The tension in the air was palpable, a powder keg waiting to ignite. The cold, the hunger, the exhaustion—all of it brewed resentment. It didn't take much for someone to snap. And today, it happened.
Near one of the deeper pits, two groups of prisoners began shouting at each other.
"This pit's ours! Get out of here!" one man yelled, his voice hoarse but full of anger.
A larger man, scarred and menacing, stepped forward, holding a shovel like a weapon. "Make me," he growled.
The first punch landed, and chaos erupted. The groups clashed, fists and tools flying, their yells echoing across the frozen expanse. Guards rushed in, their whips cracking through the air as they tried to regain control.
Takeshi lowered his pike and straightened. He wasn't interested in the fight. He was interested in what the chaos revealed.
As the guards converged on the brawl, parts of the mines were left unguarded. Takeshi's sharp eyes scanned the area. A bridge, now deserted, stretched across one of the deeper pits. Further up, he spotted a ladder partially hidden behind a pile of debris, leading to a higher gallery.
Opportunities. Weaknesses.
But it wasn't the right time. Not yet. Takeshi's eyes narrowed as he committed every detail to memory.
Eventually, the guards regained control. Several prisoners were dragged away, beaten and bleeding, their faces blank with resignation. The rest returned to their tasks, their heads low, their movements mechanical.
Takeshi picked up his pike and resumed his work. But this time, his strikes carried a different weight. Every swing, every motion, wasn't just for survival. It was preparation.
He smirked faintly, the cold no longer biting as fiercely against his skin.
"One day," he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible, "I'll turn this chaos into my weapon."
The frost lingered in the air, but Takeshi's resolve burned brighter than ever. Chains could break. Even here.